


Aeolus and the Raven Prince

by rieunn



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cursed Prince Dirk, Fairy Tale Elements, God of Life and Air John, Healing, High Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Minor Bro/God of Hope Jake, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Skaia (Homestuck), Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, that might change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieunn/pseuds/rieunn
Summary: You creep forward again, grimacing, pain evident in your expression, and for the first time since your father cast his hands out towards you, you look yourself dead in the eyes.Monster.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Aeolus and the Raven Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ectobaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby/gifts).



A crowd innumerable has gathered in front of a grey palace in a faded land, growing ever devoid of hope. The autumn morning chill shakes everyone to their core, but in their scrappy patches they still stand. Mother with distressed child. Young couples anxiously attached to one another’s hips. Gaggles of teenagers mumbling in despair amongst themselves dispersed throughout the ashen people, worn to their brittle bones and yet still, so unfortunately alive. No matter. There is important official news to be heard, and the public addresses are mandatory.

The King stands on the royal balcony, proud in his magnanimous attire, back strong and straight. Shadows fall along his pale face - a face which has known hardship but has grown callous to its effects. A clenched jaw. A creased brow. His white hair swoops behind him, paints a picture of glory to all of the onlookers who hang desperately off of his every commanding word. To his right, concealed in the darkness of opulent, thick, heavy curtains, stands a shivering boy of only ten and three years. A surly guard's weighty hand grips his arm so tightly that he fears, quietly, that it may fall from his body.

"My people. You gather here today, dismally, under the suspicion of whispers and hushed voices, rumors circulated and spread amongst you fairly, in the night. I am here today, on this very somber morning, not to ease your minds, unfortunately," his voice booms as he turns his head to look elsewhere in the audience of citizens, "but rather, to confirm them."

Sharp, anguished gasps go up throughout the crowd, and they echo off of each other and grow louder and louder into weeping wails and cries of sorrow. The King suppresses an upturn of his mouth. Now is not the time for selfish display if he wants everything to fall into his favor just right. No, no. _Now_ is the time... to conceal. Just as he always has. Just as his father before him taught him, graciously, before he was slain by his own hands in the name of succession.

"Yes," his powerful voice, full of thunderous authority, slices through the air with the force of a clean, sharpened blade. The first blow of the war he wages. "What you are all fearing is true. The First Prince and the Queen have passed. Murdered by unknown assailants in the dark, just two nights time ago."

The weeping grows; the perpetual chill and ache in the bones of the people of the land of Skaia buries itself further into their anatomy, like a deadly disease. A virus. A parasite. The King waits. He gives them ample time to react, as though he is an actor on a theatre stage, giving an appropriate pause for the audience to laugh at predetermined humor of the script's design. He waits and he lets them cry and he tries to suppress his revulsion at their candid emotion. After all, the loss of two very meaningless, insignificant lives is nothing to despair over. Nothing that time itself won't bury soon enough, the relentless gravedigger that it is.

"I know that this is a harrowing moment for Skaia, which has already suffered immensely from the throes poverty and sickness. My heart is laden down with sorrow as I speak before you. Please, trust me when I tell you that I will spare no measure, no resource, no moment of time to find these murderers, these thieves of life so terribly precious, and deliver justice and vengeance upon their deserving souls," before him, the people's faces brighten, but only slightly. Their love for their King is great, but their weakness and fear grows ever stronger and more tangible by the day, festering, opening their sewed shut eyes to a deep and disturbing reality. The King tightens his grip over their hearts, and these metaphorical threads tighten, their expressions growing brighter. Much improved.

"Worry not, my loyal subjects. I know what plagues you. The Moon of Skaia is dead, and with her, the Ascending Sun. The Royal Family dwindles before your very eyes. You wonder what will become of this kingdom. However, _I_ remain alive. _I_ remain strong. I will not let us fall into the dust of darkness - and the Second Prince has decided to forfeit his place among his fellow knighthood trainees to instead take up duties and lessons as heir to the throne."

Whispers erupt from the crowd, some frazzled, others relieved, all sorrowful. The Second Prince is so young, and he must be so traumatized.

He shakes, behind the curtain. For he knows the truth, but he cannot understand it. His father, the King, the Sun of Skaia, gives more reassuring words, ends his address with empty promises to take care of the people during this time of intense hardship, and rejoins his second son while Royal Administrators take the reigns to dole out more deadening news of the state of the land, the state of affairs, and the like. He eyes the boy coldly, and he shakes beneath the harshness of the gaze, but clenches a tiny fist. Finds the courage from somewhere within him to open his mouth and quietly begin a fearful query.

"Father, mother is dead, but Di... brother is alive, so, why..."

"Silence." And he has no choice but to obey. The King does not address his son, and instead turns to the rough guard who towers next to him.

"Take the Second Prince to his rooms. Instruct the tutors to come at once. His lessons will begin as soon as the sun arks above the Palace. Do not leave him – watch him keenly – and if he attempts to say anything at all about the recent happenings to anyone," The King pauses here to smirk with bright eyes at his kin, "kill him where he stands. I have no use for a weakling in my presence, such as it is, but... I may be able something of him, yet. As my father did me." The boy quakes. The King leans over him, whispering into his ear.

"Perhaps you will be everything your useless brother could not, David. Do not disappoint me as he did."

And with that, the King moves past his son, eyes smirking, as the guard drags him in the opposite direction, to the prison that awaits him.

* * *

A hundred and thirty-one miles from the kingdom you left behind in the wake of the smoky shadows trailing from your steps, you finally come to a clearing in the Woods of Destitution. You wonder, for a moment, if it is a trick of the eyes. Forest chicanery, as they say so oft. You have never before left the walls caging in the land you hold so dear, so you would not know anything of this place other than what you have heard from stories among the townspeople's travelers and from your scholarly studies from the safety of the balcony of your bedchamber.

Regardless, it is here, in this clearing before you that may or may not be real, that you suddenly realize just how tired your body has become over the time passed since your departure. You survey the area, narrowed eyes calculating, analyzing the situation. This could be dangerous. It is too conveniently situated, too open. He could have sent them for you past the border of Skaia, and this could be a mage's pretty illusion, trying to entice and draw you in so that as soon as you rest and let your guard down, you become easy, sitting prey. You scoff. You'd practically be handing your head over to him on a silver platter, so to speak.

You are not so weak and foolish as he thinks as to succumb to such an obvious scheme. But you also have not encountered any trouble since you were able to escape the border, and you truly have been swaying upon your feet. It has been too long since you've rested, and although you have trained extensively and regularly for years now and know your way with a sword as though it is permanently attached to your hand, survival on one’s own with no supplies in the wilderness is its own kind of training – the kind of which you never received because it was not deemed necessary for your station. A Prince does not _need_ to learn to survive on the run in the wild when he has been seated upon the lap of luxury for the majority of his life. It is simply not the way of things.

You look around once more, listen intently to the chittering and brushing sounds of the natural life around you. Decide it might not hurt to at least _enter_ the clearing, long as you’re careful.

Your steps are quiet and careful against the grass and dry fallen leaves and pine, and your mind and eyes as alert as you can possibly keep them. Your hand lays stiffly along the hilt of your sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. But... no one leaps out to stab you from the underbrush. There are no poisonous or explosive spells being cast in your direction. Just peaceful silence. Birds singing, wind flowing through and rustling the leaves of the trees. You exhale a breath you did not know you had been holding, and keep walking until you're forced to stop, blinking, startled.

Before you, beneath a particularly grand tree, there lies the start of a tributary leading off into the dark overhang of the dry brush. You have to rub at your eyes, because what you see before you _must_ be some kind of delusion or magic. Since you were forced to flee the palace abruptly in the dead of the night, in peril for your life, you have not stopped moving. Where before hunger and thirst were overshadowed by the pure epinephrine coursing through your blood, now you become painfully aware of the needs your body screams to have fulfilled. You frown. Hesitating, denying yourself relief. Something _must_ be amiss. How could you possibly be so fortunate? _You_ do not possess the charm of luck. Otherwise you would not be standing here, in this forsaken place.

Your eyes dart around the clearing again, fearful you missed some sign of malicious life. But, once more, nothing happens. You swallow, throat painfully dry, lips slightly chapped. Creasing your brows, you step closer to the tributary, quiet on your feet in hopes to be able to strengthen your auditory senses where your visual ones remain restricted by direction.

You scan the body of water. It looks clear. No sign of magic. No sign of tampering. But just as soon as you inch forward, you jump back, startled, a shiver running along your spine.

Oh, gods. Oh, merciful wind and skies above.

You did not know it was _that bad._

You creep forward again, grimacing, pain evident in your expression, and for the first time since your father cast his hands out towards you, you look yourself dead in the eyes.

_Monster._

Shadows engulf the entirety of your milky body, wisp out from the cloak you wear, staining it black. Your eyes are swimming, alight with a supernatural white that threatens to completely engulf the warm marmalade of your irises. You look a frightening apparition.

A strangled noise tears itself from your throat, and you watch in petrified horror as ink tears fall from your eyes and dissolve into the water. No. _No, no, no!_

You cover your visage, for you are loathe to look on at it any longer. What in the depths of the eternal abyss have you become? Why did your father have to destroy your kardianima _and_ curse you? Why not just crush both of your hearts in his hands at once – leave you dead, in peaceful nirvana with your poor mother - gods cherish her soul? Was it just to watch you suffer a bit longer before he killed you, but you ran? Was it just for his own sinister private laugh? You fall to your knees.

You try using the water to scrub the staining shadows away, desperately, pathetically, hoping in vain that it will work, but of course it doesn't. If anything, it agitates the smokiness of the shadows, and they billow up stronger than before.

"Fuck," you curse in anguish, to no one but yourself under your breath, shaking, and you spend several moments of time weeping brokenly into your hands. The full weight of the reality of what has happened hits you like a ton of bricks. You had been so blindly and desperately running away that you had completely blocked out what happened. You hiccup. Dave... your dear younger brother. How could you have left him at such a time? How could you have not considered the consequences of your cowardly actions?

...Is he even still alive? Gods in the fucking skies above! How could you have lacked so much foresight? You clench your jaw in a blinding fit of anger and revulsion and decide that enough is enough. You need to end this. You have already done enough damage. You could not save your mother, you could not save your brother, and your good people are going to be left to rot even further under his tyranny. And you, the coward, the only one to get away, to escape. You, the cursed _monster._

You plunge your head beneath the surface of the water, digging your trembling fingers into the cool dirt, which eagerly makes room for them to aid you in your quest, as if to swallow you whole.

 _You are not fit to live,_ it says. And you agree wholeheartedly.

Just as you're closing your eyes, lungs burning, opening your mouth to swallow water down into your abused lungs, you feel a strange sensation. Like a thousand small fingers tapping along your shoulders and back. You shake it off – perhaps it is just a side effect, a gift of hallucination that death is bringing to welcome you into the threshold of its inviting home – but the feeling only grows stronger. So strong, in fact, that it becomes solid, tangible, real, and it is physically _lifting_ you up and out from your liquid grave.

You scream. Thrash around wildly. Whatever it is lets you go, drops your whole body into the water, where you panic and splash and soak yourself through and through. Panting from the exertion, the fear, and the near-asphyxiation, you blink several times and wipe the water from your eyes with one hand. The other grips the hilt of your sword at your side like a vice, out of habit. You look around you frantically, trying to see the threat, and your eyes widen.

"Mother of the stars..." you can't quite keep the awe from seeping into your hushed whisper. All around you, frantically flitting about, are forest faeries, shining with bright neon and pastel light and adornments, colors belonging exclusively to a spectrum you have not yet been introduced to.

They are speaking all at once, and they know your name. They chant it a thousand times over.

"Strider! Prince Dirk Strider! Ascending Sun, First Prince of Skaia!" They parrot themselves over and over and over again, and you crease your brow in mild annoyance at the situation you have found yourself in, your self-destruction deterred (if only momentarily) for this nonsense. If they notice your frustration, they do not change their tune.

"How did you recognize me." You speak stiffly, an authoritative demand as opposed to a question. Faeries are notoriously finicky beings, and it is unlikely if you are naively inquisitive with them that you will get any real answers - assuming you even want them. Which, to be frank, you do not, so it is a miracle that you're still sitting on your bruised ass in the tributary muck.

One particularly bright fae comes forth from the mass flurry, makes themselves known to you.

"Prince Dirk Strider of Skaia, your curse does not exceed your essence," it speaks, and the others repeat various iterations and confirmations akin to it. Your eye twitches. What an informative and helpful response.

"... Never mind that. You have interrupted me, fae," you inform quietly, and their frenzied flitting about and dulcet-toned chatter softens until it goes completely quiet. The leader speaks once more.

"You do not have to take your life to cure what ails you, dear First Prince." The others stay silent, this time. You raise an eyebrow.

"Perhaps. And yet, here I am, determined to do so, anyways. What is it that you are proffering?"

"Join us."

"... What?" you question, taken aback. Nonsense. Become a _faerie?_ That... is not possible. They are their own kind, you are yours, and there are very little recordings on research done of the mixing of the faerie and human races. The air is not... _that_ particular brand of tense, either and, in any case, you already exist as human, through and through. You are truly at a loss as to what it is, exactly, that they are suggesting. In your dazed train of confused thought, they have closed in around you, and you notice and startle, beginning to scoot backwards. You do not have a good feeling about this.

"Wouldn't you like to be _happy,_ your royal highness, magnificent Ascending Sun? Wouldn't you like to be relieved of all of your pain? All that afflicts you..." You shudder. This is strange, and you dislike the discomfort it is causing you immensely, though maybe it might truly be what you are entitled to. You harden your features into something taciturn.

"No. You are mistaken. Relief is not what I deserve. But, if this is, however, a poorly concealed scheme and what you are offering only brings me death, then I will gladly welcome it." The faerie is right in front of you now. You can see its features more clearly. Sugar sweet, colors like the brightest of rainbows made of organic plant-like substances you have never seen once, in all of your twenty years. There is a strange expression on its face as its hair flows and billows serenely around it.

It will not stop smiling.

The smile grows brighter and stretches, "Better than death, my prince. You will become who you were always meant to be. Join us, it will be good." You furrow your brows and shuffle back a bit further. Your back bumps against the rough bark of the tree trunk, and cold sweat beads on your damp skin.

"D-Did you not hear me, you pesky thing? I would like none of this goodness, you speak of. None of your trickery, if it does not involve my ceasing to exist on this mortal plane. Leave me be." You turn away, hoping for that to put an end to its pestering.

Nothing more is said, and for a moment you think maybe you have successfully fended them off - but you suddenly feel your body seizing up with pure magic and, with a gasp, you cannot see. You cannot breathe. You feel paralyzed. Everything is dark and light at the same time, and all at once you feel blinding white-hot, excruciating _pain._

It's over as soon as it starts, whatever the fuck it is. When you come back into awareness, body clutched in the grip of violent, cold tremors, still struggling to see as dark and light spots ebb out of your vision, the faeries are no longer bright and colorful. They have turned darker than black, tinged with red, like _flies_. Angry, you recognize dimly. You can still feel phantom residual magic sparking at the core of you, like lightning, and it forces shudders out of your chest as soon as you are able to inhale them in. The one faerie comes forth again, and its voice is no longer sweet and high, but tangled and garbled and spitting, more something you hear in your mind as opposed to out loud.

"You are not _human._ Deceiver. Deceiver!" You are so out of it that you can barely open your mouth to respond.

"Wha...t?" you trip over the word, and it darts around fiercely.

"Empty! You have no _soul essence!_ Walking carcass! Barren, hollow Prince! Prince of lies, of destruction! You cannot be saved. You cannot join us. Empty, foolish being!" Its fellow faeries echo its words, which resound over and over in your broken mind. You stare at it unblinkingly for a few moments.

And then you open your mouth.

And you laugh.

It retreats, startled, and the other faeries mirror it. You keep laughing, and you keep laughing, and you _keep laughing._ You laugh so hard that you are seeing stars, practically crying, and you take hold of your abdomen to help lessen the ache.

"The Empty Prince! The Prince of Destruction! Hahaha... I rather quite like it. Haha!" You repeat through your laughter, all hollow amusement. Talking to no one. Your strangeness has scared the faeries away, just as you initially wanted. You keep laughing, keep chuckling, keep mumbling your newfound titles to yourself in the murky water until nightfall descends upon you like a cruel blanket, dousing your vision in its darkness.

What a wretched thing you have become in just a few days.

**Author's Note:**

> This work goes out to [ectobaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby) for all of his support, encouragement, and contributions to the au it's set in as well as some plot details. Thank you so much, dude, it means the world to me, truly <3


End file.
